Last year, my girlfriend and I attended a May Ball of some reputation. We shelled out around a substantial amount of money each for this privilege, only to be sorely disappointed by a self-aggrandising display of unnecessary pomp that was all style and no substance. I had expected a lot more, or at least, I had assumed that I wouldn't get so hungry waiting for the food tent queues to die down that I would be forced to join the hoard of guests jostling in front of a burger stall to try and grab a slab of processed beef. Where were the circulating waiters with platters of delicious hors d'oeuvres? Where was the champagne fountain, full of happy, flailing students? Where was Rolf Harris, tethered to a small stool, furiously drawing caricatures? I thought it was rather remiss of a May Ball with such a hefty budget to default on these essentials. They had, instead, a bouncy castle, set up in a cold, isolated field, manned by a greasy teenager who leered at my girlfriend while we bounced uncomfortably. Bouncy castle hire (as I have taken the time to research) is cheap, and, for a May Ball, it represents a tiny drop in a massive financial ocean. Why not have ten bouncy castles, twenty even, the most bouncy castles of any May Ball ever... it's worth considering.

In many of the rooms at this ball (which will remain unamed) the nearest available drink was tea. I'll repeat, tea - a warm brown liquid made from leaves and water and enjoyed by builders - a drink symbolising pedestrian Britishness and a far cry from exoticism and intrigue. In one tent we were treated to the musical delights of... a jukebox. Put a pool table and a dart board in there and you'd be getting close to a pub, but this fell far short of even that. As I sat, supping my warm, frothy Pimms and lemonade, and listening to Billie Jean for the dozenth time, I voiced my annoyance to my girlfriend. "I'm thinking of writing a strongly worded letter". "You do that" she said, getting up to dance.

If we're going to host such sickeningly elitist and wasteful parties, then we might as well do it properly. No pretty flowers or ornate marquees or cups of tea. Food of all kinds should be piled high in toppling mountains. Bottles of champagne should be available to pour on the floor. Rather than a jukebox, one hit wonders of the 80s should be lined up backstage to perform their songs at the audience's request. The Footlights should be be made to simulate intercourse with each other while guests stand around them, pointing and laughing. Shadow from Gladiators should be found, dusted down, and paid to fight pugil stick duels with drunken posh boys, always letting the opponent win. I'm not after a pleasant, well-rounded experience, I want jaw-droppingly elaborate and downright stupid entertainment. I want a ball where tuxedos and gowns are worn only as an ironic nod towards decency as the guests tumble headfirst towards chaos and ruin. This might be a little bit too much to ask, but as I once again dole out large sums of money to dubiously qualified May Ball Committees, I can only hope.

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